


It Takes All Kinds

by sariane



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Wingfic, an origin story of sorts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-02
Updated: 2013-01-02
Packaged: 2017-11-23 08:37:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/620177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sariane/pseuds/sariane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"There are three types of people in the world," Clint explains, holding up three fingers. "People who have wings and can see them," he ticks off a finger, "people who have them but don't see them," he lowers another, "and the wingless, who don't have a clue." Three fingers fold into his fist.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>"You forgot one."</i>
</p><p>
  <i>"I'm the exception to the rule," Clint says bitterly, "I can see them. Always have. I just don't have them."</i>
</p><p>This is how Clint Barton went from the circus to SHIELD, met Phil Coulson, recruited Natasha Romanov, and truly deserved the name "Hawkeye."</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Takes All Kinds

**Author's Note:**

> This fic began as a short exploration into Wing!fic and somehow grew into a backstory fic. It's been interesting, and I hope I've done the trope justice!
> 
> (Title from the idiom "It takes all kinds to make a world.")
> 
> Warnings:  
> -Canon-typical violence.  
> -Mild gore.  
> -Mild portrayal of PTSD.  
> -Minor character death.  
> (Spoilers: one bodyguard who was killed unnecessarily, one man who was attacking a character.)

Clint doesn't know what he expected the Black Widow to look like, but it certainly isn't the small, unnoticeable woman darting through the shadows on the rainy street below his sniper's nest.

"Target spotted," he mutters into the comms. "Orders?"

"Hold fire," Coulson’s voice crackles in his ear. "Fury wants you to wait until she's established contact. We’re waiting for confirmation.”

"Okay," Clint replies, smiling to himself in the knowledge that Coulson hates it when he gets too casual over the comms. "So, what's with this chick, anyways? Doesn't the whole Russian spy thing seem a bit 80's?"

Clint watches as she disappears into the building and switches his attention to the giant windows on each floor. They're all lit up, even though it's so late that it's early, but most of the blinds are closed. He focuses on the fourth floor window and scans the floor again, looking for even the smallest of movements.

"The KGB was dissolved over ten years ago," Coulson sighs, "did you read the briefing?"

"I skimmed it," Clint lies.

"Yeah, and I read every book in my tenth grade English class," Coulson replies dryly.

Clint snorts. "I'm shocked, sir."

A light brightens in the office building and Clint can make out a figure emerging from the elevator.

"Contact spotted," he mutters to Coulson. Clint taps his fingers against his bow as he watches the guy cross his arms and wait impatiently in front of the elevator.

"Stay in position, don't make a move until my say-so," Coulson commands.

Clint hesitates to respond. "Is the kill order still in effect?" he asks tentatively. There is a pause on the other end of the line. Clint strokes his bow with a finger and waits.

"You know it is, Barton." Coulson's voice sounds strained.

The door to the staircase opens, surprising the contact waiting in front of the elevator. Natasha Romanov walks into Clint’s sight.

"Target spotted," Clint whispers, bringing his bow up in his hands and grabbing for an arrow.

"Hold your fire."

Romanov is small, yes, but she has a presence. He reads it in the man as she enters the room; he's shocked that such a small woman could have a large reputation. Clint, however, isn't surprised. Her hair is a long, dark red that whips around as she moves. She wears dark and subtly revealing clothing meant to draw the eye to her pale skin and make her seem vulnerable, but Clint's sharp eyes can make out the muscles in her arms and the strength behind every graceful move. She's strong, skilled, and very, very smart.

"Yes, sir," he replies after a long moment.

The deal seems to go well at first. Romanov's body language is expert and professional; the contact's is sloppy in comparison. He can read her lips as she speaks, but not the man's replies. Things are going in her favor. She's pleased, and just a little cocky. Her smile is red and self-assured.

Something goes wrong halfway through.

Romanov tenses up as she listens to her contact speak, and Clint would give anything to know what he's saying. Her shoulders give her away and she paces back and forth in distress and replies angrily to his statement, _“That is unacceptable.”_

"Something's wrong, sir," Clint says. "But I can't tell what it is." He pulls back the bowstring and nocks an arrow, anchoring it to his mouth and pointing it squarely at Romanov on the other side of the glass. It'll take two, maybe three arrows, but he won't miss.

"Is the deal falling through?" Coulson asks. Clint watches carefully as the man begins to pace forward as well, attempting to corner Romanov against the large windows.

"She's…letting him corner her against the window. Letting him think he's in charge, I think, to try to put him at ease. She's -– _what the hell?_ " Clint breathes as Romanov freezes up, her body language locking up and tensing. The world seems to freeze as she unfurls a large set of wings from her shoulder blades.

"Barton, what's going on? Report."

They're beautiful. Clint will never get used to that.

Romanov's wings are a deep red. Not the red of blood or the same shade as her hair, but something different, something darker and earthier. He can make out the feathers, which are unkempt and wild pressed against the glass of the window. They flex up and down and curve in around her, as though she’s shielding herself.

"She's…he's threatening her," Clint says. "She looks genuinely scared. She's going to make a run for it any moment now." He swallows.

"Take the shot," Coulson commands. Clint hesitates, pulling the arrow back and staring at the space between Romanov's shoulder blades, where her wings jut out. Coulson doesn't have a video feed; he's alone and cramped in a car that's streets away, while Clint has been on the prowl for hours.

"Barton," Coulson says sternly through the comms, "Take the shot. Take her out."

Clint watches as Romanov glances to the side, away from the man. To her wings. He lets the bowstring loosen in his hand and carefully sticks the arrow back into his quiver.  _She can see them._

"You know what, Coulson," he mutters over Coulson's long-suffering sigh, "I think I'm making a different call on this one."

"What are you--?"

"I have an idea," he says as he jumps over the edge of the roof and lands on the fire escape ladder. He begins to scale down it as he keeps a careful eye on Romanov as she runs past her contact, disposing of his guns and knocking him out in a few expert strokes. "I think we can capture her."

"She's  _the Black Widow_ ," Coulson says incredulously, "she's not the type to--"

"With all due respect, sir," Clint says as he descends, "There are  _three_  types of people in this world."

***

When Clint first saw someone with wings, he was 4 years old.

He gaped at the woman at the other end of the cereal aisle of the grocery store. He whined, "Mom," and tugged on his mother's jeans.

"What?" she looked away from Barney and sighed. "What, Clint?"

"That lady looks like a bird," he said, pointing down the aisle at the woman with her aquamarine wings. She turned to stare at him in shock as Clint's mother grabbed him by the hand and pulled him and Barney into the next isle.

"Not here," she said in a low voice. Clint looked back to see the woman roll her shopping cart across the end of the isle. He could have sworn she winked at him as she passed.

*

"There are two kinds of people in the world," Trickshot said during his first lesson. "People who have wings, and people who don't."

Clint's mouth opened wide.

"You can see them, too?" he asked, and Trickshot let out a long laugh as he let his wings unfold. They were huge and mustard colored, and faded to a dirty brown at the tips.

"Of course I can, kid," he chuckled. "I've seen you staring. Let's see yours."

Clint just frowned and brought a hand up to his back, to the place between his shoulder blades that he could never quite touch.

"I don't have wings," he said, and Trickshot just stared at him like he was an idiot.

*

There were times during the circus when Clint wished he had wings like some of them. Barney didn't have them and didn't believe him for a long time, but the fortune teller had them; they were big, olive green wings that often hung loosely around her like her multicolored skirts. The strong man had them as well (burnt orange), and the police officer that brought Barney back to the carnival when he was caught smoking and drinking (a light pink that made Clint laugh behind his hand).

The fortune teller and Trickshot separately assured Clint that they couldn't fly.

"These wings are a gift," the fortune teller said as she flapped her wings gently. "Very few are so lucky to have them."

"But what are they  _for_?" Clint asked. He reached out an impatient hand to touch them and she folded them with a snap.

"Go, go back to your training," she said, shooing him away with a wave of her hand, its many large rings sparkling in the light. Clint ran out of her tent. He understood what the fortune teller really meant.

Wings didn't do anything at all.

*

The first man Clint killed had wings. Years later, he would look back and try to recall their color, their shape, but he won’t be able to remember anything except blood and water.

The mansion was supposed to be empty, according to what Trickshot told Clint over a beer he was too young to have.

"It'll be easy," he slurred. Clint just took a long drink and tried not to wonder about what Barney would think.

It was easy, at least until a man built like a rock appeared and pulled a gun on Trickshot.

Clint was on the other side of the expensive indoor pool. He froze and stared at Trick and the man, both lit by the light reflecting off the water in ripples and waves.

"Drop the bow, freak," he said in a gruff voice to Trick. "I've already called the police." Clint barely thought about it, just loosed an arrow that sent the man tumbling down with a splash.

"Thanks, kid," Trickshot said. "Didn't know they had security guards. Let's get out of here."

Clint looked at the dead man, floating face down in the pool with his wings spread out around him, and vomited into a plant pot.

*

By the time he was out of the circus and in the guise of Private Barton, Clint had all but forgotten about wings, or anything, really. He missed his bow and he almost missed his brother, but he didn't miss the fairy tales and ridiculous dreams of flying in the wind. He was an adult, and adults didn't think about childish things like people with magical wings.

He hadn't seen anyone with wings in years, anyways.

One day, Nicholas Fury strode into his life with a huge pair of jet black wings; the wrinkled skin stretched out over the vertebrae like a bat’s, and the light shone through at the edges.

"We could use you," Fury said with a stare that bored straight through him. "Your skill set is wasted here, where you're just a soldier. With us, you could be a lot more."

"Or, I could be dead," Clint narrowed his eyes. "You hear rumors, y'know?"

"We do handle the unusual, which includes a lot of unusual risks," Fury said, not denying it. "But that's because we're not just a bunch of thugs, taking orders. Our work makes a difference. We're an intelligence agency." Clint thought of the trail of crimes that followed him halfway across the country, of the notches in his gun, of the way that blood clouded water.

"Intelligence," Clint repeated, the word rolling over his tongue with as much skepticism as he could squeeze out of it. "What’s that mean, in English?"

"We don't fuck around," Fury said, his eye crinkling slightly.

Clint cracked a smile and nodded.

*

"They're beautiful, aren't they?" Maria Hill remarked to him one day as he stood at the edge of the cafeteria in SHIELD's New York headquarters.

"What?" Clint said, turning in surprise and expecting her to yell at him for something. It wasn't usual for the senior agents to pay him with more than a passing glance that said _“Oh, so_ that’s _the insubordinate circus freak.”_

"Their wings," Maria continued in an undertone. She gestured out over the many SHIELD agents, in their ties and suits or uniforms, all caught up in their work or their lives. At least five of them had wings, more than Clint had seen in one place in his life. "You can see them," she stated simply.

"How can you tell?" he asked.

"Your eyes are sharp," she shrugged, "you don't stare into space, you stare at their wings. Everyone else just thinks you're in your own little world." Clint chuckles bitterly. "I didn't know you had them, too," Maria squinted at him and Clint froze under her scrutiny. "Fury usually puts something in your file about it. Aware. Unaware. The usual terms."

"I don't," Clint said with a dry mouth. "I can see them, but I don't have them."

Maria narrowed her eyes at him and stretched out her wings a little. They were a soft, light brown that faded to sky blue at the tips.

"Nice," he said, unsure of how to respond. “I like the blue.”

"That's why Fury didn't know," she said softly as she folded her wings back. Maria nodded once in sympathy. "Why are you here, anyways? I thought you were assigned across the country after the last incident with Sitwell."

"New handler," Clint shrugged. “Again.”

"Good luck," Maria said dryly, flexing her wings.

When she turned to leave, it was like they were never there.

*

Phil Coulson had the whitest wings that Clint had ever seen.

They caught him by surprise for a moment when he entered his office -- as per the directions of the polite secretary (Wingless) -- and stopped him flat in the doorway.

"Are you just going to stand there?" Coulson said blankly as he looked up from his papers. Clint knew he liked him already.

"Sorry, sir," Clint automatically replied. Coulson looked him up and down quickly and then looked back to his file. Clint didn't notice Coulson's gaze flickering over Clint's shoulder, as those with wings usually did.  _He's an Unaware,_  Clint thought in wonder.

"Says here you've gone through eight handlers," Coulson said sharply as he shuffled through Clint's files.

"Yes, sir. I suppose that's why they sent me to you, sir," Clint replied. Coulson's head snapped up.

"You seem to have the wrong idea here, Agent Barton," he said, " _I'm_  the one that requested  _you_."

Clint's mouth opened and closed as he watched Coulson's wings flex.

*

Clint yawned into his coffee and attempted in vain to stretch inside the small, cramped surveillance van.

"This is so clichéd," he muttered as he took a sip. "And this coffee is awful."

"You got a better idea, Barton?" Coulson said from his right. Clint started a little when one of his white wings appeared at Clint's left. "You seem jumpy. Maybe coffee isn't the best idea." Clint snatched his cup away when Coulson reached for it.

"No, sir, just surprised to see you wearing a blue-striped tie today. I didn't think you had that color in your wardrobe," he said hastily with a wink.

Coulson stared at him for a long moment. "It was a gift," Coulson replied tonelessly.

"It really brings out your eyes, sir. Good choice."

"That's the kind of performance comment I expect on your mission reports, Barton," Coulson shot back. "You know, if you filled them in properly."

"'Color coordinates well,' got it," Clint smirked. "But really, why should I start now?" Coulson let out a slow, long-suffering sigh, but the corner of his mouth turned up into a smile.

They both turned their attention back to their terrible instant coffee and the small monitors in front of them and faded into their usual comfortable silence.

Clint glanced over at Coulson. He crouched over the monitors and his coffee with his wings spread out as much as possible in the cramped space. If Clint turned his head to the right, he could see the ivory feathers dance underneath his breath.

Coulson moved out of the corner of his eye. Clint watched carefully as Coulson shivered a little, as if a chill was running up his spine. Clint pursed his lips and blew harder. The feathers shook and Coulson shuddered in place. He cleared his throat and, for the first time, Clint watched his wings begin to retract. Clint froze, barely daring to make another move.

After a few long, painful minutes, Clint stretched his arms out with a large yawn, letting his hand brush over Coulson's shoulders and using the small space as an excuse, his fingertips inches away from --

"Barton, what the hell are you doing?" Coulson said, turning abruptly and shrugging out from under Clint's searching touch.

"Sorry," he stammered, "I was --"

"Do you have any idea what SHIELD's fraternization policy is?" Coulson asked angrily. Clint swallowed his excuses when he caught the closed off look in Coulson's eye.

"Coulson --"

"Target spotted," Sitwell's voice crackled through the radio. "Target fleeing building. Pursuit requested." The two of them turned to grab for their weapons -- Clint his bow, and Coulson his gun -- and burst out of the van and into the dark street.

"Pursuit initiated," Coulson said into the radio, his voice harsh and cold. Clint's heart sunk in his chest as, for the first time, he watched Coulson's wings fold up and disappear.

*

The doors to Agent Blake's Helicarrier office slid open as soon as Clint punched his code into the keypad.

"Nice of you to finally join me," he said in a flat tone as Clint stepped inside.  Blake skipped the pleasantries and got straight to the point, a quality which Clint appreciated.

"You've put in a request for a new handler," he said sharply, pulling out a file to skim through as he spoke. "From Agent Coulson, who you have been working with for two years, I believe?"

"Three," Clint corrected.

"You haven't filed any complaints," Blake continued as if Clint hadn't spoken. "It is highly unusual for an agent to request transfer without probable cause."

"I have no complaints about Coulson," Clint said. "It's nothing he's done."

"Are you going to tell me why?" His eyes bored into Clint's. When he remained silent, Blake continued, "Coulson is one of our best agents. You're lucky that he requested you. He's very particular."

"I know, sir." Blake narrowed his eyes at Clint, waiting for him to speak, but he bit his tongue.

"Request denied," Blake said. "That's my final word on the matter."

*

Clint sat with his arms wrapped around the safety railing of the Helicarrier deck and let his feet swing over the edge. He stared out at the patchwork quilt of fields below, taking long, deep breaths measured by the tapping of his fingers against the railing.

"You shouldn't sit out here for so long. You'll strain your lungs," Coulson said, appearing behind him. Clint didn't startle or turn around.

"You know it's not that bad, sir," he replied. Coulson hesitated, and then crouched down next to him to hang his feet out over the open air as well. The sound of the engines, of jets and the Helicarrier, hummed to fill the silence that grew between them. Clint watched Coulson out of the corner of his eye, specifically for his wings, which were folded up against the wind. With anyone else, they'd be gone completely, invisible and withdrawn.

"I've always meant to ask, but I never did," Coulson began slowly. Clint tensed up. "Why Hawkeye? Why that codename?"

"Circus name, you know. Why do you think I'm way up here?" Clint said easily, sweeping his hand out to gesture at the blue skies before them.

"That's not the whole story," Coulson observed. Clint looked down at his hands and sighed.

"I've got an eye for things," he shrugged, "always have. That's how Trickshot chose his name," he said, because Coulson had read his file. He knew nearly everything.

"Trickshot chose his name after his abilities."

"So did I," Clint replied. "The Amazing Hawkeye," he shook his head.

"It's not the same," Coulson said. "You could have bragged about your abilities. You could have been, I don't know, Point-Blank or Target or Bullseye…"

"Stupid name," Clint snorted. "But it's the same thing, I'm still bragging about my sight."

"Maybe," Coulson said. "It's not bragging if it's true.”

"No," Clint interrupted him, "You don't--"

"I’m not an Unaware," Coulson blurted out suddenly. Clint froze with his hands on the railing. "I probably shouldn't have started with that," he said apologetically, lowering his voice a little. "I know I have wings. And I know you can see them. That’s why you chose Hawkeye, isn’t it?"

"You don't need to brief me on this, Coulson," Clint said, his voice edging dangerously towards bitter. "I know."

"I know you do," Coulson replied. "But it isn't in you file. And I've never," he took a deep breath, "We're supposed to see everyone else's, but I've never seen yours."

"I don't…I don't have any," Clint said as quietly as he could over the rushing wind. He expected Coulson to quiet, to awkwardly freeze up and apologize like everyone else did, but he didn't.

"Alright," Coulson replied, taking it all in stride, "you're special, then."

Clint snorted and rested his chin on the railing.

"I'm a freak," he growled.

"You're not the one with the wings," Coulson replied dryly. He stood up. "Come on, stop pitying yourself and get inside. You have mission reports to file."

Clint got to his feet slowly and followed Coulson across the deck. Coulson touched his shoulder lightly before they left the open skies behind.

*

Clint hated missions like this, missions where it was basically a milk run, but the stakes were just high enough to make a small slip-up catastrophic.

"Coulson, come in?" he called into his comm as he splashed through the flooded, dirty alleyways.  The monsoon continued pouring down on him as he fled. "Come in?"

The static of a ruined transmitter and the splash of the rain was his only reply.

The thug finally caught up with him at a dead end, where the dirty water reached up over his ankles.

Clint disarmed the man quickly and dodged his first few punches. It was slippery, though, and the thug's last punch hit hard, probably cracking a rib. Clint wheezed for breath, head spinning, and took another hard hit. Before he knew it, the guy had him flipped onto the ground and was trying to turn his head to the side to force his face into the water.

"Coulson," Clint choked out, as if that would make the man appear. He took a gasping breath half filled with rainwater, and then brought his feet around to knock the thug's legs out from under him. He hit the ground with a splash, and it only took Clint a moment to snap his neck.

He fell back into the water with a sickening thud, his wings appearing broken, dirty, and wet underneath his body.

Clint braced himself against the wet alley walls and dry heaved over the flooded pavement as he waited for backup to arrive.

*

Clint woke up from his third nightmare with a scream caught in his throat.

"Barton?"

Through the half-light of the safe house's bedroom, Clint could make out Coulson's outline in the doorway. He forced himself to take a deep breath.

"Sorry," he muttered. "Bad dream." Coulson didn't move from the door.

"Does this happen often?" he asked gently. Clint's throat clicked when he swallowed.

"It's nothing," Clint shrugged, but he couldn't quit shaking. Coulson left the doorway and, to Clint's dismay, sat beside him on the bed.

"You can talk about it, if you want," Coulson said. Clint stared down at his shivering hands. He wished that he wasn't broken out in a cold sweat, that Coulson wasn't here to see him so vulnerable. He drew his knees up to his chest and let the covers fall down around his ankles. When Coulson didn't continue, Clint just watched his wings stretch out behind them both and tried to force away his trembling.

Through gritted teeth, Clint took in a quivering breath.

"I'm --" Clint started, but a sudden tremor crashed over him like a wave. Coulson automatically reached out to put a hand onto his shoulder. "I'm, I, I can't shake it," Clint admitted finally. "I just, I can't, every time I close my eyes --." He stared up into Coulson's gray eyes and tried to burn them into his memory in place of the images of blood, water, and broken wings spread out from a broken body.

"Shhh," Coulson carefully draped an arm around Clint and pulled the sheets and blankets up to his chest. "It's okay. We're safe. Go back to sleep." He concentrated on Coulson's voice and tried to believe him. "It's okay, Clint," Coulson whispered in a voice Clint had never heard him use before.

Clint fell asleep sitting up next to Coulson with his white wings curled around them both.

*

Coulson opened the door to Clint's tiny quarters and started when he saw that he was awake and sitting up in bed, staring at the ceiling with nothing but a lamp to light the room. Clint looked up and blinked.

"Come in," Clint said automatically, surprising even himself. "What are you doing up this late, boss?" He took Coulson in: today's suit, slightly wrinkled, top button undone, tie loose around his neck.

"Couldn't sleep," Coulson shrugged, like it was nothing. Clint nodded in solidarity. "Came to check on you."

"I'm fine," Clint said. "Are you okay?"

Coulson walked over, kicked off his shoes, and sat beside Clint on the bed in reply. There weren't any chairs, just a tiny twin mattress shoved up against the wall. Helicarrier quarters were cramped and claustrophobic, but somehow, Coulson's wings stretched out behind him made the room seem bigger. Clint stared at them, wide-eyed.

"I forget they're there, sometimes," Coulson said, wringing his hands. "It's strange, because they aren't corporeal, but, if you can see them, you can touch them."

"Someone explained it to me once," Clint started, "like they were a part of a world only so many can see. Like, when you know someone's secret, everything about them looks different and everything makes sense, especially the things that never did before."

"Do you ever wish you had them?" Coulson asked. Clint ignored his question for a moment, in favor of staring at Coulson's wings instead, now that he had good reason to. They were almost fully unfurled, about the length of Coulson's arms, and stood out in a bright, feathery white. He looked at them for a long moment, until he could ignore the question no longer.

"Not sure," he muttered. "What use are they if they aren't really real?"

"They're there," Coulson said. "They're real. They just work a little differently than the rest of the world."

When Clint didn't reply, Coulson took a deep breath.

"Would you like to touch them?" he asked. Clint's mouth went dry but he nodded, just once.

"I -- yes, if you're sure," he said, tentatively reaching out a hand.

"Wait," Coulson said, holding up a hand and pulling away slightly. He slipped out of his jacket, untied his tie, and began to unbutton his shirt for reasons Clint couldn't understand. Wings didn't follow the rules of clothing.

Clint watched him silently as he neatly folded it up and set it on the lone table in Clint's room.

"Okay," he said as he stretched out his wings. Clint shifted to sit upon his ankles and hesitated with his fingers an inch away from the white feathers. He could make out every vein of every feather, the way that they moved in the tiny air currents of the room, how they reflected the light and eerily refused to cast shadows against the wall. Clint froze with his hand in the air.

"Clint, it's okay," Coulson said, tilting his head up to look at him. Clint's hand shook a little.

"I've never," he swallowed, "shit, I'm sorry, I just always thought that if I ever touched them, they'd, I'd--"

Coulson silently took Clint's hand in his own and carefully brought it over the top of his white wing.

"Wow," Clint said, fingers trailing over the softness of the wings. Coulson's hand fell away. He stroked the wing again before he looked over to Coulson, who sat with his eyes shut and his head tilted down. Clint inhaled sharply as he took in the sight and involuntarily thought,  _beautiful_.

Careful to avoid brushing against his wings again, Clint crawled around Coulson and stopped behind him. He looked to his back, where the wings seemed to sprout from his shoulder blades, as though they belonged there. Feathers grew from the pale skin like nothing he'd ever seen before.

Hesitantly, Clint ran his hand over the junction between feather and flesh. Impulsively, he leaned down and kissed the spot between Coulson's shoulder blades.

" _Clint,_ " Coulson gasped, his voice barely a whisper.

Without waiting for another cue, Clint crawled around him and into his lap.

" _Phil_ ," he replied with a smirk. "You aren't wearing a shirt."

"Sometimes it amazes me that you can spot so many details," Coulson --  _Phil_  replied dryly.

"I try." Clint couldn't help but let his lips quirk up into a smile as he leaned forward to kiss Phil, who brought one hand up to curl around Clint's neck.

Clint responded by hooking his hands underneath Phil's wings and pushing him back onto the bed with a laugh.

***

Romanov shakes off the sedative arrow more quickly than Clint expects. She's not happy to find herself securely tied to a chair in the basement of one of the random, decayed buildings near her meeting point, but Clint anticipates that. She is awake for a few minutes before her eyes open, but Clint doesn't let on that he knows. He lets her survey the room and come to consciousness on her own terms.

"Well, good morning," he says cheerfully when she lifts her head. Her eyes dart around the room quickly, taking in everything, all the possible exits and weapons. Finally, they stop on him.

 "Don't worry, I don’t plan on killing you," he says in a measured tone. She narrows her eyes at him and looks him over in scrutiny.

"That's what they all say," she sneers back. Her accent is carefully American, and Clint takes note of that. "You couldn't if you tried." He chuckles blandly at that.

"I could have," he says seriously. Killing her is certainly what Coulson wanted before Clint took out his earpiece."But I have a better idea." She narrows her eyes.

"I've heard this before, too," Romanov sets her jaw firmly as her voice drops into a disgusted tone, "you couldn't manage  _that_ , either."

"No," Clint says, and he doesn't laugh this time. "I'm with the Strategic Homeland Interv -- I'm with SHIELD," he explains as she subtly tests the bounds on her chair. "You're right, I was sent to kill you."

"SHIELD," she repeats slowly, "I wondered when you'd show up. What, you want me to spill secrets?" She cocks an eyebrow.

"No," Clint shakes his head, "I want you to join us."

She laughs, a throaty, mocking sound.

"No."

"That's what I said, when I was asked." Clint looks down at his hands, and then back up to Romanov.

Her wings have emerged, the deep red shadowy in the basement, but she seems to be ignoring them in favor of focusing on the ropes that bind her to her chair. Clint, yards away, reaches for the reassuring presence of his bow and wonders how long Coulson will give him before he turns on Clint's GPS and calls SHIELD to announce that Clint has gone rogue. He isn't going to let his fondness get in the way of the job, Clint knows that, and they've both agreed on it.

But Clint works differently than Coulson, which is why he's staring down Natasha Romanov in this musty old basement.

"I didn't have a reason to get involved," Clint continues, mind racing back to Fury's invitation, the way his leathery wings drew Clint's eye and drew him away. "It's not the military. It's not the Red Room. SHIELD is different than anyone you've ever worked for," he says honestly. “It was my chance to repay a little of the debt I'd acquired."

"Nice story. I think you've mistaken me for someone who cares," Romanov sighs.

"You can't run and hide forever, and SHIELD will give you protection. Stability. You have a lot of enemies, Romanov."

"I don't see how this means I’m a prospective recruit." Her wings stretch out suddenly, as though she's going to try something, and Clint braces himself.

"You have beautiful wings," he blurts out. The room seems to close around them as her sharp eyes bore into his. "I -- they -- it would be a shame to see them go. I've seen too many people die. I think you have, too."

Romanov takes a sharp breath that echoes in the small, bare room.

She whispers, "You can see them too?"

He nods numbly and freezes as she squares her shoulders and looks him right in the eye.

"You're not lying?" she asks in a guarded voice. "I've never met anyone else who has them." For a moment, he wonders if this is a ploy, if it's one of her games. But she looks almost surprised to him.

"I don't have them," he says, and she deflates. "But I can see them. I know others who have them." He thinks of Coulson, with his huge, white wings stretched out around him all the time like a beacon.

"I've never seen anyone else with them," she admits in a tight, guarded voice.

"There are three types of people in the world," Clint explains, holding up three fingers. "People who have wings and can see them," he ticks off a finger, "people who have them but don't see them," he lowers another, "and the wingless, who don't have a clue." Three fingers fold into his fist. 

Romanov points at him with one finger. "You forgot one."

Clint nocks and points an arrow at her faster than she can slip her other hand free. Romanov just laughs, her wings flexing casually behind her.

"If I wanted you dead…" she trails off, but Clint knows that she knows she couldn't have made it to him in time.

"I'm the exception to the rule," he says bitterly, touching the arrow's fletching to the corner of his mouth as he speaks. "I can see them. Always have. I just don't have them."

"You shouldn't be so depreciating," she says as she pulls her other hand free and gets to work on her ankles. Clint doesn't move. "The way you're looking at it, you're supposed to have wings, and you don't. But what if that's not the case?"

" _Supposed_ to?" he interjects. Romanov ignores him and pulls a foot free.

"But, what if you're normal? What if you're wingless? What if you're just smarter than the rest of them?"

Clint doesn't respond to that. He just watches her stretch lazily and settle back down in the chair, arms folded daintily over crossed legs. Her scathing eyes don't leave him for a moment, but he doesn’t budge, although it's not an easy task to keep an arrow pointed at her for so long.

"Okay," she says with a slow nod.

"What?"

"Your offer," she says like he's an idiot. "I'm taking you up on it."

Romanov folds up her wings until they disappear and lets him frogmarch her up the stairs and out of the abandoned building. The sky is just beginning to lighten when they emerge into the damp alleyway.

To Clint's surprise, Coulson is waiting for him, leaning against a brick building with his arms crossed and his wings spread out behind him, as usual. He looks bored, but Clint can read the stiffness in his shoulders. He's worried.

"Barton?" Coulson says, quirking an eyebrow up when he takes in Romanov. She's staring at Coulson, at his wings, with a carefully blank expression. Coulson meets Clint's eyes with another, unsaid question.

"I've got a new recruit for you, sir," Clint drawls. He turns to Romanov. "Meet Agent Coulson, of SHIELD."

"Miss Romanov, it's a pleasure to finally meet you," Coulson says with one of his polite, contained little smiles, offering up compulsory handcuffs instead of a handshake. Romanov returns the smile as she allows him to cuff her.

"The pleasure is all mine," she says. Clint watches her gaze travel over Coulson’s shoulder to his wings and linger there as he radios in for a pickup.

When he's done, Coulson walks a few steps to Clint's side so he can lower his bow. Clint smiles thankfully as Coulson trains his taser on Romanov. He flashes Clint a reassuring smile that makes his eyes crinkle a little.

"You made the right call," he mutters into Clint's ear, so Romanov can't hear. "She's different."

"Maybe." Clint feels the ghost of Coulson's wings as they brush against his shoulder.

"So," Coulson whispers, "which type is she?"

Clint considers for a moment.

"I'm not sure yet.”


End file.
